Brothers
by MerciMonAmi
Summary: Enjolras realizes there, cornered in the cafe, this is the end. But what if moments before, a new thought comes over the army general?


He was the final man left.

In his own eyes Enjolras had seen his brothers fall one by one. Some were thrown backwards by cannons, dead before they hit the ground. Others had taken bullet after bullet until their bodies were pale and the red of blood masked their now milky eyes, solemn and quiet in death. At last, man by man died until the barricade was no more and the great leader was pushed back into the café. There were a few others with him, all battered as bloody as much as him, but were shot at before they could reach the second floor.

Enjolras looked far better than the rest. His golden locks managed to stay in relatively good condition, and his clothes only had minor tears. His only wound was an aching bullet that became embedded in his shoulder, but even so the blood blended in with his red coat. He contracted a fair bit of dirt and sweat getting to the place he stood, but even so, he stood tall and strong as a god.

He managed to get himself over a table and in front of a window looking out over the barricade. When footsteps and yells could be heard beneath him, for a moment the man made himself turn and look down. There, it was the mess he had only just been in. The barricade had fallen. Corpses were strewn about. Blood filled the crevices in the ground. As his eyes wandered, Enjolras could make out the shapes of the dead. There, on his back, Combeferre. Laying over an old barrel, Joly. Leaned up against a wall, Courfeyrac. At last, Enjolras made himself turn away, and he stared blankly at the stairs ahead.

A certain numbness followed that Enjolras had never felt before. It was the knowing that he could do no more. Now that he had seen his friends there, dead, bled out- he realized soon he would be the same. A sickening feeling entered his stomach, but he lifted his chin. And another thought struck him. Hadn't he known this would happen all along? It was only a matter of when. With his mission came the ultimate risk of his own self falling for his cause, his love of France… And he began to reflect of the days before, everyone alive, laughing, drinking… How soon things change. Despite of the risk, they fought. And now they had given their lives for it.

"My friends," he shook his head, closing his eyes for just a moment. "I am sorry."

He put a hand over his shoulder to try and mask the bleeding just as a flicker of movement came from the stairs. Then another. And then more. And suddenly heads began to appear, and Enjolras realized that the national guards had made it into the café up to where he was. And now they would kill him.

He had no weapon. The only thing that caught his eye was a red flag in a heap on the table in front of him. He grabbed it, running his fingers over the fabric and thinking of the events only days before.

_Red, the blood of angry men…_

Not seconds after did the remaining members of the guard file in and spread themselves out in front of Enjolras. Their guns were leveled at his chest, faces angry and bearing into his own. Enjolras looked right at all of them, untangling the flag and opening it out in front of him. The numbness grew, and he found himself getting hot, but with every second Enjolras found himself standing taller and looking at them harder.

"He is the leader!" A voice cried out. "It is he who slew the artillery-man! It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot."

Enjolras shrugged, holding the flag out in front of him and opening his arms, asking, waiting. "Shoot me."

Murmurs sounded from the guards, others looking from him to each other and to their sergeant, who had not said a word or moved an inch since when they got up there. The air had changed. Enjolras wasn't fighting, he wasn't crying in pain or attacking any of the men here to kill him. He was only a broken man now, come to die, and come to say his final prayers.

Eventually, one guard whispered to another: "It seems to me I am about to shoot a flower."

So Enjolras lifted the flag as high as he could.

And another voice, very small, ordered in a very hushed tone: "Take aim."

And lifting his eyes Enjolras realized it was the sergeant. Only, he appeared slightly different from before. The gun was shaking slightly in his hand, and his eyes seemed to darken and gloss over in confusion. His mouth was held open, as if to say something, but it never came out. And finally, he fell apart.

He lowered his gun and turned to his men. Some kept theirs trained on the heart of Enjolras, beating slowly now, others looked to their leader in a question of why, awaiting an order. They appeared just as confused as the sergeant did at that moment. He clutched his stomach, shaking his head, and finally spoke out again.

"Lower your guns, men," he ordered. "Point them away, and leave. Leave this place. I will deal with this man."

They looked to the sergeant, raising brows, exchanging quizzical glances.

"You heard me. Leave." And they slowly began to file out the door.

Enjolras clenched his teeth together, breathing in sharply as he looked to the sergeant. He still held his gun, and had a pistol tucked in his belt. He began to suspect the guard leader would pull it out, shoot him in the heart, quick and singular. It didn't really matter, though. Dead is dead. If he was shot fifteen times or shot once in the heart he would end up dead either way. He was already bleeding and his heart was sore, if this was his fate, so be it.

The sergeant walked up to the table Enjolras had in front of him. He laid his gun on it, tapping fingers a few times before he looked back up to Enjolras. He shook his head and breathed a deep sigh, pulling out the pistol. So Enjolras was right then. That's how he would go.

It was loaded and ready to fire, but before doing so the sergeant froze and looked right into the god's broken blue eyes. Enjolras looked back while he realized it was becoming a feat to keep himself standing, and he began to wish all of this could be gotten over with. He was ready to ask for the man to finish it all when the sergeant suddenly spoke.

"All of those people killed out there were people you knew. Friends. Brothers." His gaze wandered to the window.

"Yes," Enjolras nodded, looking back blankly.

"People you had spoken with. Drank with. People who rose up for your cause."

"Yes," Enjolras dropped his gaze to the flag. "And I should be with them. Shoot me. I ask of it now."

"Not yet," the sergeant said and shook his head. "Now, I, too, have lost men. People I knew the same. Both of us have friends now dead. It's empty, in your heart, isn't it?"

Enjolras looked away, dropping the flag and holding it as tightly as it could. His chest throbbed, and he began to lose himself, but the sergeant continued on, every word a dagger to Enjolras. He remembered his friends before. The good days. The times together.

_Black, the dark of ages past…_

"I see you, a young man. And all the others beneath us dead. And I have come to an unfortunate conclusion." He drew in a deep breath. "We're all the same down there. You and me. It's like killing a brother. I am sorry, monsieur, Apollo, or what they call you."

"Please finish this now," the leader begged, looking straight into the sergeant.

"No, no. Listen. My men are gone, the place is a mess. In a moment, I ask of you to flee. There won't be too much time. Can you do that?"

"Flee?" Enjolras choked out.

"Yes," the sergeant raised up his pistol. "I'm sorry."

And he began to move his hand, but not where Enjolras expected. He thought it would end up on his heart, fire, and end his suffering. But the sergeant continued to raise it until suddenly, it was level with his own head, at the temple, ready to fire.

He nodded his head, and pulled the trigger.

He was dead when he landed on the boards, his head now bloody and blown. The man who moments ago was the leader of many men, who led others towards the students, was now dead. Enjolras had to take a step forward to confirm it. But it was true. The sergeant took his own life instead of Enjolras.

The leader walked around the table, dizzy now and the wound in his shoulder bleeding much more heavily than before. When he made it to the other side he finally fell to his knees, leaning over the body of the sergeant. He gave Enjolras a life back he wasn't sure he wanted. Everyone was dead. He found himself to be fading fast. And he found himself mumbling 'Why? Why?'

But suddenly, a movement to his left.

A stool moved, and then Enjolras thought he saw a glimpse of dark brown and white. Then again, he could have imagined it for his vision was failing him, and he swore there was no one else in the café when he came up. But there, he noticed it again. A rising of a person.

Enjolras had enough will to lift his head and look, there, emerging from a mess of tables and chairs- a man he did not expect to see. His hair was messy, shirt unbuttoned, but his eyes held life and a determination to reach the one man he only ever believed in. It was Grantaire. And he was coming to him.

"Apollo?" he asked, but the drunk knew the face better than anyone.

"Grantaire." Enjolras mumbled, looking him up and down.

"Apollo, take my hand. I heard the man." He grabbed Enjolras by the wrist and tried pulling him upwards. "We need to get out of here."

"They're all dead, Grantaire." The fallen leader pleaded into his eyes. "Everyone."

"I am not, Apollo." He moved a hand over Enjolras's shoulder, and continued to try and pry him off the floor. "Please."

"I cannot," Enjolras shook his head.

"Please, Enjolras." Grantaire froze and grabbed his friend by both of his hands. "I believe in you."

"I'm all you ever believed in."

"Yes," he nodded. "And I am getting you out of here."

Grantaire let go of Enjolras for only a moment to stretch forward and incase his leader, his love in a deep embrace. Enjolras fell into it, too beat, too weak to do otherwise. But he did not feel quite so alone, even though his grief was unexplainable. Because one person was still with him. The last Enjolras would expect, but then again, was it really that surprising? And he was grateful. When Grantaire held him, he was grateful. When Grantaire lifted him to his feet and leaned his body against his own, he was grateful.

And when Grantaire walked him out of the café, he thought, just for one moment- that maybe, it would be ok.


End file.
